We Can Make The World Stop
by TheDetectivesHedgehog
Summary: Exactly one year, John had been haunted by the thought of Sherlock's death; stated day, the day of John's attempted suicide - and is rescued by the one he mourned. Lurking in secret the whole year, he had to return, but why? - very slow burning relationship-focused Johnlock fanfiction. Collab; enjoy! M - Later chapters.
1. In Light of Darkness

**Author's note: Hey guys, Sandra and Jackie here to open up our first collaborated fanfic! Just an added note to say I'll be playing Sherlock, and Sandra will be playing John, and we hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as we're enjoying writing it. Adios, my brilliant shippers.**

* * *

**WE CAN MAKE THE WORLD STOP**

**CHAPTER ONE: In Light of Darkness**

It had been a year exactly since Sherlock had taken his faithful fall from his life as it were and humanity itself, and by means of what others would assume to be sentiment, Sherlock had returned to the scene, not of his presumed demise, but the scene that had represented much of his past life. The life he'd left. He'd visited the building he'd fallen from height and the radar of Moriarty's assassins' more than he cared to admit, in an assumed memorial to the moment. But this building, the building that represented home was one he tended to avoid out of sheer temptation. In spite of his abstract setting of body but not mind, the place within his partner's priority still remained. He hadn't needed to directly communicate with John to realise that; he'd received John's texts, naturally. The phone he never used yet kept. The reason, however, was a loss to the detective. Either a loss, or categorised as irrelevant; the line had begun to blur somewhat. Though as everyone knew, dead men don't speak; so he stood, as a silent observer — watching, just as he had for months now.

The sky was a dull, usual grey; he noted the sight of it within the reflection of puddles formed within the beaten gravel dips of the street. Yet despite the common nature of the night, something was different, off. His eyes scanned a second puddle and it was then that he saw a figure, shady but by some means defined; him. John. Shaking and stumbling; he neared the edge and Sherlock tremored. Within an instant he broke into a dash, drops of rain chilling him from his cheeks to the bone; what little resistance he possessed draining with every stride he took. He would save him. Yes. He had to.

* * *

With each day passing John Hamish Watson had gotten worse; slowly but constantly — and he had been fully aware about it, yet, hadn't taken any action to get better besides getting into therapy. It was somehow satisfying feeling the pain, feeling the grief, feeling the misery. On the other hand John had known that he wouldn't be able to go on forever. With the first anniversary of … Sherlock's death arriving, therapy had gone as useless as in any sort possible and three days ago his leg had refused to work properly. It had been a shock — both for him and the woman who should have made him feel better. Feeling his leg blocking with each and every single step had been somehow another clue that his best friend was dead, indeed. The physical pain was endurable; the psychological not so much.

Now John was on top of the house he had been living in for the last few years. It was raining but he wasn't noticing the drops connecting with his skin anymore. He didn't want to feel ever again, just like his friend. For a whole year he had thought miracles were real and not just stories. But not anymore. It was over. Everything was over. Everything had to come to an end finally and with that he took the last few steps towards the edge of the roof, looking down. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he said, trying not to cry but that was tough. "I don't think I can look as good as you jumping off of that building but I'll try. It's the try that counts, right?" Gulping, he took a glance around. He had always loved London but with his friend gone, it had gone dark and uninteresting. A few windows were lit, but he was sure nobody would notice him. It would be over in a few seconds either way.

* * *

His heart thumped within its ribbed cage and jumped to his throat; he finally understood the metaphor. The thudding, now deafening as it engulfed every one of his senses; he was panting, no doubt, for he'd never run fast in his entire life-time. Not even for his own life. The life that he had sacrificed for a man of who was wasting his; a man who Sherlock had abandoned out of reasons that were only his own. Reasons that he wouldn't acknowledge for they betrayed everything he stood for. Sherlock Holmes the lone, the wanderer, was running back to his home. He wasn't planning his every movement, he wasn't deducing anything but the time that seemed to stretch out faster than he was able to handle.

Sherlock would've viewed it as paranoia, had he allowed himself to concentrate upon anything but his endgame. But he didn't; instead, he moved in blurs. Until, finally, he was there — the roof, approximately ten feet behind him. There was no time for anything but movement. Risking two paces further, he launched himself forward and into John's body. The two bodies fell to the ground and Sherlock hovered above him for several seconds as he caught his breath and analysed John's state of consciousness. His pupils were erratic, but seeing. Swiftly, he flicked John's skull and set his state to unconscious.

"Bloody idiot."

* * *

When John awoke, he immediately felt like there was something wrong with that. His mind was clouded and when he tried to raise his head, a pounding ache appeared suddenly, leaving him groan. With furrowed eyebrows he tried to remember what had happened last night — he had been miserable, he had been drowning in memories and finally decided to end it. The last image his brain was able to retrieve was one of him standing on the edge of the roof. Everything that came afterwards was gone. Well, apparently, he hadn't jumped off of that building. The question that was arising now was: why? He had been determined to do so since there was no one left to care about him. The only person who had ever cared — even if it was in a slightly different way than normal people would do — was his best friend. And he was gone.

Trying to swallow in order to make the sore feeling in his throat go away, John took a look around. He was lying in his very own bed with a blanket over his body. It felt warm and somehow comforting, like a caring friend who tried to spend some solace. Next to him on the little nightstand was a steaming cup of tea, so someone must have put it there only minutes ago. With the frown on his forehead growing wider, he tried to sit up a bit but whenever he moved only an inch, his head began pounding again. Mumbling grumpy words to himself, he laid back down, waiting for the person who got him the tea to enter his bedroom.

* * *

With the man who had once been his best friend now unconscious, Sherlock had been able to handle the situation as he pleased without the hassle of interrogative questions that would've been approached had he not done so. Sherlock wasn't prepared for any of them, in spite of having endured a year of wondering and wandering; this day was never supposed to come. Yet, it had, and Sherlock's mind was racing. As he pondered his actions for the rest of the night, he'd brought a limp John to his feet and manoeuvred the both of them back down the apartment they'd once shared. Rationality was slowly but surely seeping back into his mind, and he became more and more aware of his surroundings as he entered deeper into his late home.

Mrs Hudson hadn't been in; or if she was, then Sherlock hadn't detected suitable movement from her. He'd switched on the light with his elbow and shuffled John and himself into the living space; it was chaos — far worse than Sherlock had ever kept it. Refusing to acknowledge the guilt he'd force to dormancy, Sherlock pressed onward until he reached John's bedroom. It was there that he laid him to a much-needed slumber.

Leaving would have been the logical solution to avoid any awkward and frankly unwanted socialisation and Sherlock had battled internally with parting ways before John awakened throughout the entirety of the night. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd stayed. The fresh cup of tea by John's bedside had been brewed by Sherlock's hand and as mid-morning arose, Sherlock attempted his leave. His mistake, however, had been returning to retrieve the coat he'd left upon John's armchair. It had taken him a split second to realise his mistake; nonetheless, he said nothing — opening the conversation to John himself.

* * *

John wasn't able to determine exactly how long it took until someone entered his bedroom finally — and when it happened, John looked rather confused. There was a tall man walking in hastily, getting his coat and stopping all of a sudden when he realized, John wasn't sleeping anymore. He had dark, curly hair, prominent cheekbones and an unmatched way of pacing and when his mind suddenly got it, a small smile spread across his face. "Of course," John mumbled almost with a blissful grin on his features. "I wouldn't be that lucky."

He had intended to jump off of that building and since he couldn't remember a single thing about it he most probably was dead by now. "I'm in some sort of heaven, am I?" It sounded kind of peculiar vocalizing these words but he couldn't think of another solution. "It's not real. You're not real. You can't be. You died exactly one year ago."

At that, John stopped himself. Maybe he didn't die and his best friend was indeed standing right in front of him — but no, his mind immediately told him otherwise. He had seen him hit the concrete … from a very high building. It wasn't possible. Then what was happening now? Was he wishing for him to be here, making him tea, watching over him while he got better from … whatever it was that he had done? Was it actually Mrs Hudson and John just imagined her to be someone different? Someone special? Someone he missed like hell? He wasn't sure and he had no leads to determine which one of his options was the correct one. "Why are you here?" He asked instead, trying to ignore his pounding heart which almost felt like it wanted to jump out of his ribcage. Maybe this would bring some light into the darkness.

* * *

Just short of a second was the time it had taken in order for Sherlock to regain his composure; and after he had done so, his eyes zeroed in upon the man entangled within bed sheets and a rather vacant demeanour. His poise was slouched yet tense, the consequence of a shock after slumber; his lips were slack and charred, an evident indication of stress and ill-care toward them. But it wasn't those physical attributes which tested Sherlock's unusual intellect's extent, it was his eyes. It was always the eyes. John's were grey and they were unbelieving; hollow and see-through: John radiated loneliness — a loneliness emanated from grief and loss, and deduction was of no need to detect why. For the object of John's internal eradication was stood before him no form but himself.

The slip of cynicism combined with a poor attempt at humour distracted Sherlock from his analysis, and Sherlock's attention was immediately drawn to the words of which he'd uttered. However, his response had been delayed as John was speaking again. _Heaven_. His grey eyes narrowed into near-slits, not in agitation but in perplexion. John's vocabulary choice had been peculiar; nonetheless, Sherlock had examined it as it had been: a description. A word. Nothing more and nothing less. The usual connotation of heaven did not apply to Sherlock, therefore, his indifference remained. A faint smile touched his lips, one of which breathed normalcy about the once-partners.

"Believe what you will, John. I'm sure a figment would want you to believe their existence as much as a being of reality would." Words were power, and power was a prospect Sherlock tended to pride himself upon; John would call such a tactic unfair and even cruel. But John was the better half of the duo, and John was better off without the worst half. He bent to the chair's back and enveloped his lengthy fingers about the dark fabric; in an instant, he was looking back towards John. "Is this how you imagine heaven, John? With me?" His Adam's apple dipped. "Maybe you should ask yourself why I'm here."

* * *

With each second passing, John's assumption became more logical, at least in his weakened, confused mind. He had hit the ground only minutes ago and his soul was in heaven now — although he never had believed in such things like a God or Heaven and Hell, it somehow felt soothing, comforting, _good_, because his best friend was here with him. The fast movements of his eyes were scanning his posture, like they always had done. At first, John had felt rather uncomfortable when he had noticed it, but it had taken him only a few days to get accustomed to it. That was what he always did and what a flat mate was he if he wouldn't get along with _that_? It was practically his nature to deduce everything that was surrounding him and everyone who had the pleasure to meet the unmatched genius.

"Where I am?" John finally answered and the smile was still prominent on his features. "That's clear as day, isn't it?" A short laughter escaped his mouth, followed by a cough that sent a painful twinge through his head. Grimacing, he continued. "I jumped because there was nothing left to live for; I hit the ground and died without a single second of pain. Just like you did, _Sherlock_." At speaking his name, John suddenly paused. Ever since his best friend had left him one year ago, he had refused to say it out loud — the only occasions when he forced himself to do so was when he was talking to his therapist. She wanted him to do so since it was a method of 'getting over his pain' somehow. It hadn't worked at all.

Vocalizing it now felt kind of … relieving? He wasn't quite sure how to categorize it but it was a good feeling and it just reinforced his theory of being in heaven and having the chance of living again. "You're in heaven too, right? Because you're dead, too. How's it here? Any different? You don't look any different to me." At that, John chuckled lightly, trying not to cause another stinging pain in his head. Seeing him standing there in front of his bed nothing could have given him proof that this wasn't the real Sherlock. The same shirt, the same suit pants, the same black shoes. His curls were in the right place and his eyes as wary as always. If this was indeed only a dream and not his afterlife, his mind was creating a very good image of him. Even after moments of silence and observing on John's side, he couldn't find a single detail that wasn't like it had been back then.

"So that was the right decision, then," John mumbled to himself. He had thought about it a lot of times, he had wished for it to be true — that there could be something like a life after death. And it looked like there was. And Sherlock was with him. He had hoped he would be here; it had been the only reason he would have gone through with suicide — and apparently he had been lucky. After one year of grief and misery and pain, he would have the chance to be happy again. "Thanks for the tea, by the way," John said after a while, smiling blissfully for the second time.

* * *

John had changed. Or perhaps, the John Watson of who was presented before him now was the John who existed without Sherlock Holmes. Even the simplest of deductions was able to conclude the above thought as correct, and from an outsider's view, Sherlock would've known exactly how to handle the situation; but he wasn't a case, and he wasn't an abstract stranger Sherlock had been brought to psycho-analyse. He was John Watson, his only friend. An odd pang of what could only be sentiment struck within him and for a moment, just for the slightest of moments, Sherlock broke eye-contact with John and directed his gaze to the headboard. Granted, it was a slight moment that John was unlikely to catch via the assistance of his sane mind, let alone an erratic mind that thrived upon second-hand guesses and lived within fables of folklore make-believe.

However, the odd behaviour John was delivering somewhat eased Sherlock into a distant and unrelated sense of mind within himself. Nostalgia was said to be one of the most prominent catalysts in the downfall of control, especially concerning those once of importance to the affected party; and like this, no nostalgia but the sight of him was able to emit from the desperate man's frame unto Sherlock. His relentless ramblings similar to that of a mad man, were durable to the extent of Sherlock's ability to suppress whatever emotion attempted to overtake him…but the direct personalisation of his name drew a strange feeling within Sherlock; this feeling, though, was uncomprehendable. It was a name he hadn't been labelled in a year, said by the same mouth, the same voice of who he'd heard the word from last.

And it shook his mind and body to complete attention. He shouldn't be affected in such a way; John believed him to be dead and just a figment. He was free to leave — yet he couldn't instruct the command to his legs. He was acting irrationally, and it was a weakness he never believed himself to have. He resented it.

"Tea?" Sherlock repeated, then cleared whatever matter had clogged within his throat. He took in the white swirls of warm smoke espied within the corner of his eye and his lip twitched. "Tea. You're welcome." Sherlock raised his coat and threaded each of his arms through each of the sleeves. "You would never go out without it." His eyebrows knitted into one as he paced about the right side of his bed and towards the door. He halted with his palm upon the handle and chuckled lowly, though it betrayed no humour. "You don't regret it. I'm glad. Living in a state of limbo must be agonising." It was then that he opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

* * *

The next morning, John awoke when the sun was shining through the window of his bedroom and on his face, warming it with its beams. Even the weather seemed to be in a better mood, John thought, when he made a first attempt to raise his head — and succeeded. His skull was still hurting a little but not as nearly as bad as the previous day. The cup of tea was on the nightstand like it had been the evening beforehand but it had cooled down during the night. However, it was still reminding him of his friend being back and at this, John swung his legs out of the bed and got up. His first destination was the bathroom. Body care was important.

But he wouldn't make it. Maybe he would have been prepared for the storm that was evolving in his mind in a few seconds, if he had realized that all of this wasn't some sort of afterlife; maybe it would have been less painful coming to the conclusion that his vision of his best friend had just been a dream and he had blacked out for some unknown reason on that roof. Perhaps he had been in such a weak mental state that his mind was blocking out the rest of the night since it had been borderline traumatic.

When he fell onto the floor, however, it was like falling out of all the clouds he had been on. His leg refused to work. In heaven, this surely wouldn't have been the case, so it could only mean one thing: he was still one of the living. He was still lonely John Hamish Watson, waiting for his best friend to return somehow and the cup of tea hadn't been made by his hands.

The concrete was cold against his hands; the piece of carpet his face was lying on rather coarse and scratching his left cheek. John's heart was racing wildly while he was trying to figure out what had happened the previous night and why he had this weird feeling in his stomach. After a few seconds of lying on the ground, feeling embarrassed and weak and exposed, John made an attempt to get up. With effort, he stood on his feet moments later and looked for his walking stick. Strangely, he found it at the end of his bed and with a furrow of his brows and a few limped steps, he reached for it, still trying to remember, what had happened only hours ago.

* * *

12 seconds was the amount of time it would have taken Sherlock to leave John's room and the apartment itself; 12 minutes would have been the amount of time it would've taken Sherlock to beckon a taxi and to be a far way from said apartment; 12 hours was the amount of time he had fought inwardly over the thought of leaving. And 24 hours was the amount of time he had stayed. He had never stayed for anyone in his entire life, yet the idea of leaving John as weak and feeble as he was, even as a mere concept held minus appeal for the detective. For what loyalty still lurked amidst their bond, Sherlock displayed behind actions. Or rather, behind lack of actions. Today, however, he would leave. He had decided; the risk of John successfully accessing their physical, alive states was far too high for him to stay any longer.

Sherlock hadn't achieved sleep status that night, either; unlike his friend. Although, what did differ from the night prior was how he had spent the duration of it. He hadn't watched over a sleeping John, eyes bound by logic assuring him of John's steady breathing and lack of severe injury; no, instead, he'd invested himself further into the emotional gate-way of John's mind. A mind that he had not been present to deduce. But one his ghost had been present to impinge. The prose filling John's blog post accompanied the selection of texts he'd received via identical fingers; they were fragments of a fractured, fumbling mind — yet a mind that proved undoubtedly human, for his mind still hoped. After all of this time, John Watson had remained human, and that, in itself, was bewildering.

As night evolved into morning, Sherlock had barely registered the difference in light and temperature due to the intense occupation of his mind; John's way with words was extraordinary and deeply involving. But he'd known that from the day they'd met one another. No other had ever appreciated the capacity and verses of his mind so completely and positively, not like John Watson had. The unmistakeable thud from John's bedroom had captured his attention before emotion had inveigled its capture of it, and Sherlock immediately rose to his feet. Though, contrasting to his rash, unthinking movements of rescuing John before, Sherlock paced carefully. Cautiously, he opened the door to reveal John, walking stick in hand and an expression of budding realisation upon his features.

"Good morning, John. Sleep well?"

* * *

Just when John was standing on both feet again, someone entered his bedroom — and the sight of the person that was walking towards him was telling him he wasn't prepared for any of this. His incomparable, deep voice rang out in his mind, was forcing him to remember a lot of the one and a half years they had spent together and was causing an uncomfortable pain in his chest. John was staring into his eyes, his intense, piercing blue eyes with the hints of green and gray, just like a snowstorm approaching an untouched piece of nature, bringing an impenetrable layer of clouds with it. He wasn't able to deduce what he was thinking but his counterpart surely could — he was the master of deduction after all.

His posture was rigid, almost motionless and for a few moments they were opposing each other in silence while John's mind was racing. So this was heaven after all but his leg was still not working? Well, he could live with that, he thought suddenly. As long as … as long as he would be able to talk to his best friend again, that would be okay. Maybe he wouldn't need it at some point. It had happened one time, it could a second, couldn't it?

"Good morning to you, too. And yes, like a baby." It was still completely odd talking to him again. "The tea got cold." Frowning, John briefly wondered why he was referring to the cup on his nightstand another time. It had been addressed enough now, he thought by himself, however, he ran out of topics to talk about. "So you … this … how does this work?" What were the rules in heaven? Would they work on cases again or would the live a normal life like a— like normal flat mates would do? John couldn't think of either scenario in detail, his head was still hurting and his mind had a lot going on to adjust to everything that was going on.

Since standing in front of each other and eyeing the counterpart felt a little awkward after a few moments, John decided to walk towards his window, taking a look and drawing in the nice weather and the sunbeams. If this was his personal heaven, it wasn't any different to reality with the exception of his best friend being alive and with him again. Using the walking stick still felt somehow unfamiliar but what was he going to think? That he would get accustomed to it two seconds after his leg had decided to not work properly again? When he had made it to the window finally, he took a long look and suddenly, when he was looking at the windows of the building on the other side of the street, an image flashed through his mind. It was him, standing on the roof in the rain, feeling dull and empty and hopeless and when he almost jumped he was knocked out. He remembered his head hitting the hard floor and then everything went black.

Turning around to face his friend, he only voiced a silent "This can't be".


	2. Fool For Falling

**Author's note: Evening all! Here we are with the second addition to our Johnlock creativity with a simple note to say firstly: whilst exams and coursework deadlines are at a head, we'll be updating once a week but afterwards, we won't make you guys wait as long – we're not the BBC. *cough cough* And secondly: a HUGE thank you to our readers, favouriters and followers alike; we love you all. Enjoy!**

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**CHAPTER TWO: Fool For Falling**

The sight of John supported by his walking stick was one of which he'd only encountered upon one occasion before, when first meeting John; yet the deterioration of his leg's ability had been apparent as he'd watched over him in the months that had passed the both of them by. He'd been stood at a distance, but he'd been standing present nonetheless. John, evidently, had no knowledge whatsoever of Sherlock's frequent undisclosed observations, but it had been for the best. John had survived without the company and influence of the man he named 'friend' for a year now, in spite of the relapse he'd experienced a couple of days ago; so who was to say after today he wouldn't regain his composure and continue to live how he had done for the 12 months Sherlock had been absent? Albeit melancholy had ruled the majority of said months, but perhaps this meet would be enough to ignite the will inside him once more; and he would be able to live the life he should've, and would've without Sherlock.

As if he never existed. Just as it should have been. Or so Sherlock selfishly hoped. Alas, hoping was a fickle prospect and shockingly irrational — the realisation stirred discomfort within his gut, within his own skin and mind: Sherlock wasn't himself. Something had changed, and it wasn't simply John Watson. The change had rooted itself once John had accepted Sherlock's invitation of a home and an adventure, and in turn, had allowed Sherlock himself to accept John's invitation of companionship and company. Sherlock had always possessed humanity, as all humans ultimately had and did; what he had also done, however, was sever the link between the natural ability to feel emotions and the emotional responses as its counter-part.

A machine, John had once called him; and in a metaphorical sense, he supposed that was exactly how he wanted John to perceive his emotional availability. Yet as evasive as he appeared to others, he knew John could deduce his own interpretation of Sherlock. And that, alone, made him vulnerable. That alone scared him more than anything ever had mastered.

"Good." Sherlock found himself nodding, perhaps in approval of John's reply or of himself. Though, upon his discontinuous mention of tea, Sherlock pressed his lips into a firm line. "Tea tends to do that when you leave it sitting for hours." He was able to do this, able to pretend. "Rules?" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't believe there are any." The silence that befell each then didn't disconcert Sherlock, but John's sharp, unbelieving yet accusing gaze, did. He swallowed. "You're wrong, John." He snapped. "Whatever you think you believe, you are wrong."

* * *

John had been miserable for exactly one year. Three-hundred and sixty-five, no, sixty-six days of darkness, since it was a leapyear, and getting worse with each week passing and only now his mind was clearing up and showing him what had been plain as day the whole time. This wasn't some sort of heaven, some sort of afterlife or a dream. Sherlock also wasn't a hallucination his mind had come up with because he had finally gone mad. This was reality and the whole concept of it was just beginning to unfold in his head. His brain was connecting the bits and pieces and about ten seconds later John knew what had happened.

"I never fell off of that building, right? You knocked me over. That's why I can't remember a single thing about it. You knocked me over and I hit my head and then everything went black." Gritting his teeth, John noticed that he was pointing towards Sherlock with his walking stick. "Why are you back? How did you …" He paused, trying to maintain is composure. Suddenly, standing on both of his legs felt harder than it ever had, harder than on the darkest days of loneliness after his death. Death … the word seemed ridiculous, now that he knew he had never been dead. "How did you do it? How were you able to fake a death like this one? You jumped off of that building, I saw you do it. You told me to." But suddenly, while speaking his mind aloud, a different thought occurred in his mind. "Of course," he murmured, more to himself than towards Sherlock. "Oh, you are brilliant, indeed. And yes, Sherlock, it took me a whole year to figure it out and you know what — I'm disappointed. I'm disappointed because you never took the effort to come back earlier. I was about to kill myself. Is your twisted mind able to catch that? Your only friend decided to kill himself because he felt that miserable."

Breathing in deeply, John tried to calm himself down, but it felt like trying to extinguish a gas stove with your own breath. It was impossible. Taking a few steps towards Sherlock, who was still standing on the same spot as when he had turned towards the window, he looked him right into the eye. "I don't know why you're here now; I don't know why you didn't just lay me down in my bed and left. It's not matching your usual behavior. Why did you stay? Why are you looking at me now like you don't know what to say? The great Sherlock Holmes, who has even faked his own death, doesn't know what to say. That's a premiere." Laughing a short and humorless laugh, John supported himself on his walking stick again when he felt the pain increasing. "I need this again," he continued pointing towards the stick with his free hand. "That should be nice evidence as to how bad I really felt all this time, don't you think?"

* * *

From the split second Sherlock's immediate defiance had left his lips, he knew it had been too late to save the reality of the situation from dawning upon John. And once it had, hell apparently hath no fury like a John Watson scorned. Sherlock usually dismissed all thought of hell and heaven as actual destinations, though the belief of hell to be a state of mind, in this instance, the first time in his entire life, Sherlock entertained the possibility of its existence. For the onslaught of utter fury John was exhorting upon him was fuelled by an anger he'd never witnessed from the man in the many months of their living together, of knowing one another; Sherlock had underestimated the affect he'd had over John, and now such loyalty had been tested, Sherlock found himself simply speechless.

Years of practise in schooling his reactions appeared to have equated to great worth, due to the lack of emotion betraying to the surface John's desperation was persistently attempting to break through. His words were cutting and choosy, yet he left no room for a mental barrier concerning his own self; he was open to emotion, a vulnerability that Sherlock was slowly starting to realise he was beginning to lack. As John gained a closer proximity, Sherlock's breath hitched; a clear sign of a glitch within his nervous system — he could feel his pulse pounding within his neck and wrist. It had been easier to tame his thoughts and functions with John at a distance, though now he was directly before him, resolve was losing reason.

Pupils dilated at a wider circumference than usual, they searched everywhere within his frontal vision, but always landed on John. There was nowhere else to look and nothing left to deduce. John's agony had transformed into something stronger and more potent, his accusations growing darker and cruel — a John Watson Sherlock had never received privy of knowing. Yet, essentially, a John Watson his own, callous deceit had created.

"You didn't kill yourself." Sherlock stated, his grey orbs flecked with sparks of soft determination exerting no power of anger, but of assurance. "Neither did I. We were both fools." A mock smile curved half of his mouth. "But as for the leg, how interesting." His eyes shot to the ground, eyeing his crippled leg, then back towards him; in a motion too fast to be stopped, Sherlock wrenched the walking stick from John's grasp and tossed it across the room. His features remained solemn and staring as he watched his friend with nothing short of expectation. "Let's test the theory: walk to me."

* * *

If John would have been a little calmer, a little more collected, he surely would have noticed the anomalies within Sherlock's behavior. Usually, he would have had prepared a witty comment already, there wasn't a single moment John could recall, where his best friend had been speechless. Sherlock made conversation while thinking about their current case; he would only devote a few percents of the capacity of his mind for talking. However, John wasn't able to notice all of the small hints Sherlock was showing right now. His heart was pounding way too frantically; his mind was racing way too fast; his teeth were gritted way too tightly and the latter was the reason why he wasn't able to react on his friend's words.

One second later, his walking stick was gone. Simply staring at Sherlock, John didn't know what to do. It wasn't like he couldn't walk at all without it but there was a real chance he would fall within the process. "What are you doing?" He finally asked with a confused undertone while he tried to read something out of his opponent's eyes, like he had always done. "What is this? Some kind of sick joke? You know, I won't be able to walk." John waited for a response, two seconds, three, six — nothing. Eyeing the distance with a pounding heart, he gulped heavily, feeling the lump in his throat grow bigger with each second passing. Then he straightened and reminded himself discipline being one of the most important virtues in order to be a good soldier. Sherlock wouldn't get him his walking stick in an eternity, so the most reasonable thing was to get it over and done with. He would manage those few meters, he surely would.

The first step was good, also the second one, although he could feel the pain increasing already. Gritting his teeth even tighter, John took the third step and managed to pass half of the way with it. His leg was getting more rigid with each moment passing and at the fourth step he was failing finally. He felt the pain rushing through his muscles, his balance making his farewells and a moment later he had to support himself with his own arms. As soon as he felt the soft carpet beneath his hands, the feeling of being exposed he had endured the previous day returned. John wasn't able to define why Sherlock would do such a thing. "I told you so," he growled. "There's a different reason as to why it worked back then." John indeed knew what it had been that had freed him from being dependant on that damn stick but there was no chance in hell he would ever tell him.

* * *

Thankfully John was, or at least played oblivious to the affected undertones of Sherlock's out of character behaviour and for that he was grateful. His eyes and exterior was calm and collected now, focused wholly upon John as echoes of the man he knew protruded to the surface of he representation. Slowly but surely, his rage was dispersing, whether John realised it or not. Sherlock undeniably did. In fact, his retort had been nothing short of predictable. His words were by no means pleasantries, but the ghost of a smile that now occupied his lips was one of mental reassurance toward himself. John had never been difficult to deduce, but the familiarity heading toward their damaged dynamic was making its eventual return, and Sherlock was eager.

The detective had persuaded his best efforts into keeping a complacent expression for the duration of time John took in deliberating whether or not to obey the command Sherlock had provided him, and for the most part he had managed it. Lack of verbal communication had helped, naturally. But as John took his first stumbling strides toward Sherlock, his gaze narrowed and he peered through his eye lids in an act of severe concentration. Each step he achieved was a step more than Sherlock had presumed credit for, though a credit that he'd always reserved for John; he was unlike any other he'd met, and only continued to prove that. As eerie as the concept sounded, Sherlock was almost proud of John. Albeit, the moment he fell, despite the truth of his theory, Sherlock's expression dropped with him.

Sherlock's eyes were locked upon John's sprawled figure upon the ground; weakened by his own inability to function without necessary support. The support, of course, wasn't physical — it originated deeper than that. The support John craved, Sherlock had invoked, thus John's denial of the walking stick's assistance a brief time after they'd encountered each other. They had been mere strangers, and yet, John had needed Sherlock, whether he desired for Sherlock to know or not; he did. Had he granted himself permission to, he would've wondered similarly regarding John's perception of him, but he hadn't, so a mystery it remained. In spite of John's expected protests, Sherlock had bent in order to help John from the ground. His body motion had been lithe, his arms secure and his fingers steadfast in helping his friend to his feet and for several seconds he had said nothing.

Sensing John's need for privacy, Sherlock turned and walked toward the door. And in an almost exact mirror of the day before, he had stopped and looked back to John.

"Your leg will work again, but you need to put your faith in me." He wet his lower lip. "You said you never believed I lied to you. So, I ask you: do you believe me?"


	3. Common Strangers

**Author's note: On behalf of the both of us we'd like to thank every single one of our readers, favouriters and followers for keeping up with this story and especially our reviewers. You don't know how great reading them made us feel; reviews are beautiful – just like this ship, and well appreciated! And with that, here is Chapter three. ^^ **

**CHAPTER THREE: Common Strangers**

Where are you? **JW **

Out, John. **SH**

I figured. Where exactly? **JW **

Not too far. Care to join me? **SH**

Only if you tell me how all of this is possible. **JW **

How couldn't it be? I am 'The Great Sherlock Holmes' after all. **SH**

Very funny. **JW **

Oh? It wasn't supposed to be humorous. **SH**

Nevermind. Where are you then? **JW **

Hyde park. Remember the woman and her dog, John. It was a nice bench, wasn't it? **SH**

Yes, I remember. What about it? Are you there? **JW **

Yes. Wrap up warm, it's chilly. **SH**

You pay the taxi. Give me twenty minutes. **JW **

I'll wait for you. **SH**

* * *

The sharp winter-like breeze whipped past a solitary Sherlock, weaving its freezing wind through the insulating wool of his in famous scarf and grazed his pale cheeks. His entire body tensed involuntarily as the alteration of temperature jolted through him. Usually, his attire was suitable for all sorts of weather, though this morning the unusual chill of summer seemed unforgiving. He pursed his lips firmer and burrowed his gloved fingers farther into his coat pockets. John would be here soon; but in the meantime he had been granted time in order to collect his own thoughts. Albeit the process was often an easy one, since returning to his old life, the entirety of pre-formed rules were practically non-existent. It bothered him to a degree, in frustration towards himself.

Witnessing sight of John again had been odd for the simple fact he had checked up on him numerously and not once had he been targeted so profoundly by his own feelings. However, it was only natural that a geared response provoked deeper than a one-sided inspection. He hadn't checked his phone, but he knew the minutes that had passed equated to at least 15 counts of sixty seconds. Some who knew him poorly would register Sherlock's mood as anxious; but Sherlock wasn't anxious— or perhaps he was. Secretly, Sherlock had anticipated this talk; the talk that should never be but was, more than John himself. His irrational mind, a mind bound by human loyalty and unspoken commitment to the ex-doctor had longed to describe the explanations; the intricacies of his great escape from death itself.

It would be like a story, a novel of one of his greatest schemes to date. And had the subject not included the presumed demise of Sherlock himself, John would surely dub his plan brilliant, phenomenal, even. Nonetheless, the subject was him, and the accommodation of John's emotional needs would be a well-thought focus for the direction of his outward muses. After all, in spite of Sherlock's weakness in expertise within the area of viable emotional responses, he had deduced John Watson enough to realise that emotions themselves were important to him. Therefore, they were an imperative part of any bond, of their bond. Or so he had assessed. The soft crunch of the ice that clung to the ground to the right of him caused a smile to form across his mouth.

"You found me."

* * *

Last year, June in London hadn't been that cold - or maybe John hadn't noticed the temperature since he had felt pretty numb all the time, especially during the remaining rest of the fairly chill spring months. With the sun spending more and more warmth his emotions had gotten back slowly - but never again to their full extent. Now that he was walking on crunching pebbles and shivering slightly, he shortly wondered, why he was feeling again. The answer was plain as day, however, he refused to even voice the words in his mind. His friend already had a pretty big ego, no need to expand it even further. John had no clue why Sherlock was at the Hyde Park. Maybe he had needed time to think — at least that was what John had needed after the incidents of the previous day — or he was just strolling around, giving him the space he had asked him about. Sherlock had always been an enigma for him, a very interesting person he sometimes didn't know what to think of, yet, he found, moving in with him had been the best decision he had ever made in his life. Whenever he scrolled through his blog these days, reminding him of all the things that had happened while being with Sherlock, he had also stumbled across his very first entries — and they were depressing to read. He hadn't understood why his therapist had wanted him to write down everything that would happen to him at first since there hadn't been much to talk about. Then he had met Sherlock Holmes and everything had changed. His blog had become kind of popular over the weeks and months and they finally had been on TV all over the country, even in some other states.

Now everyone lived in the belief that the famous Sherlock Holmes was dead — and his colleague John Watson alone and retired from solving crimes. He kind of wondered how his friend could go out there to the park without feeling exposed somehow. A lot of people had seen his face on screen, so there was a good chance of strangers coming to him, asking him if it was really him or not.

After getting out of the cab, John tried to walk as minimal as possible with his limp. He didn't like it. People were staring and pitying with the expressions on their faces, which made him mad. It wasn't like he wouldn't be able to do things a normal human being could do — besides running around like a young doe or something similar — he just couldn't walk without a little support. It took him a little longer than he had expected to get to the bench Sherlock had given him a clue about. He had mastered deciphering his vague phrasings long ago since his friend wasn't much of a conversationalist. When he finally sat down next to him, he felt the warmth somehow radiating from his body. "Yes, I'm here. Now what?"

* * *

In spite of being a man of reasonable intelligence regarding those of the norm, John could also quite easily fall into the lapse of the common error relating to average normalcy of an individual. The error of which he was referring to was, of course, the inability to register what he saw no matter what frame of mind he may find himself within. John was bothered about a matter, but a matter that wasn't directly linked to Sherlock, and he knew such by the steady eye contact he had received when Sherlock's gaze had greeted his. Often when John was negatively affected by Sherlock he would tend to shy aware from full, remotely-lengthy glances, and that was how he knew. The careless clatter of his walking stick against the rough wood of the bench was a helpful, yet needless contributor to his conclusion.

John's current depressor was his crippled leg accompanied by the equally-crippling realisation that the limitation had returned after he'd successfully ridden himself of the handicap. And in that instant, Sherlock internally validated the vow he'd made to his friend the day prior; he would be the catalyst in the efficient working of his leg once more for the simple reason he owed it to him, at least, so he supposed. John's verbal prod had grasped Sherlock from his thoughts and reverted his full attention back into the present conversation. Sherlock blinked.

"Now what?" He queried, turning several degrees in order to face him. "You're expecting an explanation, aren't you? Isn't that the only reason you are here, John?" He parted his lips in order to continue, though the sound of shuffling feet relatively ten metres away halted his train of thought and he started again upon a different angle. "Don't worry about them, they won't recognise us here." A somewhat absurd smile met his lips then. "You were always worried about that, people talking; what people said." Sherlock recalled, nothing short of fondly as a light chuckle passed his mouth; his eyes didn't acknowledge the civilians that moved by and remained upon John. "Oh I have missed this. This, this." He shook his head, the smile still playing upon his features as though it were a part of his own private joke no other was invited to know. He lent back into the bench and sighed quietly, his eyes leaving John for a moment to drink in the gardens before them. Sherlock's smile slowly faded into a faintly vacant expression before he spoke again. "I know you want comfort, John; reassurance. But faking my own death wasn't meant to bring any of us, comfort. It was a necessary precaution." His eyes latched onto John's and an odd emotion enveloped him. "And I apologise for my part in your…" He stopped and dropped his eye-line. "I apologise."

* * *

John wasn't exactly sure if he could remember more than five conversations with Sherlock where he wouldn't frown at some point while talking to him. He wasn't stupid, yet, sometimes he wasn't able to get his weird and twisted mind immediately. Sherlock was thinking in odd and winding ways John sometimes didn't know how to decipher. It didn't make him feel less intelligent — which he most likely was, though — but it showed him one time after another that his friend wasn't easy to read. That he didn't know how to have a proper talk with someone, that he indeed was a sociopath.

Therefore his little speech was something rather new to him. He had heard him voice insults about him, he had also heard him voice the words 'I don't have friends, I only got one' and maybe John had had a hard time continuing to walk away from him and hide a smile, but after all, this had been the most human Sherlock he had been honored to get to know so far. "I don't know to what exactly you're referring with your last sentence but … well, it's not done with a single apology; you know that, don't you?" John wasn't exactly sure to what extend Sherlock was familiar with sorting things out when he was part of the problem. He knew he wasn't good at that but how bad was he, actually? "Maybe I'll understand why you did it but you need to tell me how you did it. How you managed to survive this … this suicide mission. I spent a whole year mourning over you. I put flowers on your grave, I visited it at least twice a week. I …" His voice trailed off when a lump began to form in his throat. "It's nice to hear an apology from you, though. I didn't know you could … you were able to notice when it's needed to say words like these."

Somehow the urge to talk to Sherlock was more than he could manage at this point. For a whole year John had had nobody to talk to, even if his friend would casually think for a few hours and not talking anymore; it had never been strange to sit next to him and writing his blog or solving a crossword puzzle while Sherlock was solving a much more complex crime. Now that he was able to actually talk to him, it felt like something was finally back in his life. Like a whole had been closed. During the whole conversation and while he was vocalizing his words he had looked at a tree standing right in front of them, now he was turning around for the first time to actually look into his eyes from a small distance. They had the same indefinable blue with some gray and green and a small voice in the back of his head was happy that Sherlock had given him the miracle he had wished for. Thinking again about the words Sherlock had just said, one of the statements was interesting. "Also, what have you missed, exactly?" He added after some seconds of silence. Maybe he just wanted to hear it said out loud.

* * *

Curious eyes were not a type of eyes Sherlock was unfamiliar with; in fact, incredulous coupled with accusing gazes were what he had received upon a daily basis from civilians and police officers alike during his time as a consulting detective. But the intensity of which John was currently staring at him beneath was an intensity that, strangely enough, he had only ever experienced once before with him. The scene he was referring to, evidently, was the restaurant the pair had encountered upon their first stake-out of the serial-killer taxi driver. He recognised the acute dip of his eyebrows accompanied by the delicate creased lines about his eyes, portraying nothing more than an earnest attempt at the decipher of what could only be the single man within his direct vision.

Sherlock was almost certain John's seemingly fixated gaze was one of which he had no conscious control over, and for that Sherlock was able to forgive him, but not to dismiss it. For he knew the voice behind every expression, and every hidden expression behind every voice; he prided himself upon the ability to be able to notice such intricacies. John's goal wasn't to disconcert Sherlock, but it was to decode him. He may not have known it in that moment many months ago, but Sherlock had, and even now, he could sense John's disappointment in conveying the possibility his attempts to humanise him had been in vain. Yet, they hadn't. Somehow, the single, sole companion he'd allowed into his life, his home, had managed to inflict an indefinite, undeniable consequence that's repression had, essentially been in vain.

The possibility of hurt; genuine, human hurt, was no longer a possibility but a fact. Sherlock Holmes was feeling hurt. Sherlock had refused to understand how one being was able to alter another so perceptively and completely, but the proof of his bond with John Watson had proved him ignorant.

"I do know, John." His reply was solemn, testy almost; though the recipient of the test was unclear. "I notice, I observe; I know what is expected, what the norm is." He swallowed something that didn't exist and continued. "But even if I was to tell you what happened, every detail, every second — you still wouldn't understand. Because you and I, we are different. Our minds are strangers. What makes sense to me, what was needed of me, you wouldn't accept. Because if you would, you wouldn't have left flowers on my grave." His final sentence, however, was what had invoked the most thought and equally, time. "Everything, John. Everything."

* * *

"I know how your twisted mind is working, Sherlock," John burst out after his friend had rattled off his modus operandi once again. "I've been living with you for about one and a half years; don't you think I wouldn't know how you're doing your … how you're able to deduce people by now?" John didn't exactly know where this came from, where his anger and his disappointment and his dissatisfaction were arising from. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock hadn't given him an exact answer yet; maybe it was because he hadn't been able to talk to him in such a long time now that it didn't matter what he was saying as long as it would be perceived by his best friend. He knew that he was still observing him; that he was analyzing his behavior, his voice, his posture, just everything within the fraction of a second. He was brilliant at that, but as soon as his own person was involved, his mind just somehow shut down, John assumed. The social part just wasn't there. It really wasn't.

The next sentence, Sherlock said, was more painful than John had thought it could be. Yes, his friend had insulted him a lot and at first John had been rather confused as to why he was doing things like this. With the weeks passing by he had developed the ability to edit out his utterances about his intelligence quotient and his narrowed mind. It was his nature, he had assumed. His brain was working a lot faster, a lot more efficient than others and he couldn't process why others weren't capable of be as clever as him. "I know you're thinking in different ways than I am but that's not an excuse to not tell me how you did it. I want to hear your story, even if I most likely won't like it. I just need this piece of information to …" To find my peace again. "… nevermind. Just tell me. I'm used to weird opinions of yours." At that, a small smile appeared on his face, despite all the negative emotions that were crawling up inside of him.

The last sentence was surprising John, though. "Everything?" He repeated with lifted eyebrows and an — at least in his opinion — indefinable expression on his face. "Then why didn't you leave me a note or something? A clue that would've told me you weren't dead. You faked your death, why didn't you come up with some way to contact me? You're sitting in a public park with me now so it probably wasn't the fear to get tracked down that kept you from saying hi." Gritting his teeth again, John formed his trembling hand into a fist in his lap. It had begun to tremble again only a few weeks after losing his best friend. Sitting in the living room, watching TV and grieving all the while hadn't been very exciting so it had only been natural that his tremor was back. It still was too much to process now, so maybe the trembling got even worse. He was sitting on a bench at Hyde Park with the presumed dead Sherlock Holmes, talking about the impossible, after all. "I just don't understand why you were acting like you were. Maybe I'm not as intelligent as I should be to grasp it."

* * *

Sherlock didn't treat John's outburst as a means to insult him; he'd been the subject of many an (alternate party had perceived as) snide comment and recognised it well — his sociopathic tendencies certainly weren't tendencies of which earnt the consulting detective much free praise. But the intent to disconcert Sherlock didn't exist when it concerned John. He was simply diagnosing a characteristic of his mind. Twisted. Because that was an entirely fitting description after all; he diverged from society's natural order and invented one of his own, a strict code of morality and precautions that aligned itself to uncanny precision. It was a code that he'd forced himself to abide by for as long as he could remember, and in that sprung habit.

He no longer possessed choice in how he thought, how he cognitively processed, for it was almost innate within him; for the smallest fraction of a second, Sherlock contemplated John's perspective upon his anti-social demeanour. Sherlock realised upon first sight of him that his humanity was both his courage as well as his curse. And for that, he had struck a chord of unfamiliarity within Sherlock, a chord that had perhaps once existed within his ownself but something he had chosen to 'delete' long ago; he represented a missing sector of his personality, of his person that Sherlock had deemed as too unimportant to keep. But a sector that was somehow dire. And John's treasury of such a flawed yet radiate prospect had been the simultaneous deciding factor in Sherlock's decision.

Balance was a concept Sherlock had never experienced profoundly until the arrival of John and in an oddity, they had once balanced one another. To convey his thoughts into words, however, would have invoked unnecessary effort; John had never confessed need of expansion for the simple reason he did realise how his mind worked — or at least, what he was able to realise. So instead, he filed his mental epiphany distantly, and refocused his concentration upon John. He remained silent for a good couple of minutes as he allowed the majority of irrationality to dilute from John's system before speaking.

"My story?" He cocked a single brow then shook his head. "This isn't a story, John. It's more of a…confession." For a moment, his eyebrows touched as he worded pre-sentences within his mind. "Think about it, John. Think about it logically; had I told you I was faking my death, had I allowed you to know I visited you as often as I did — that I was still alive after a day, a week, a month, a year it wouldn't have worked." He paused, his serene eyes boring into John's awaiting, eager gaze. "It was you. You were the key, the most important one; the one who needed to think, to know I was dead and who needed to grieve over me. Because if you didn't believe it, then one of us would be dead. And it wouldn't be me."


	4. Confessions & Condolences

**Author's note: Hi all, we apologise in advance for the late update this week; things have been a little hectic. Though here we are with our fourth addition to our Johnlock fic. And once again we'd like to thank our readers, favouriters, followers etc. You're great! P.s. We're currently half way through the next chapter and we'll aim for Wednesday update – but if not then as close to Wednesday as possible; however, reviews are more than welcome! **

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: Confessions & Condolences **

A few people were walking by when Sherlock was answering his questions. None of them were looking exactly in their direction but somehow John expected one of them to turn around, a gun in one hand and shooting. Blood would be spilled on to the bench, on to his jacket and his friend would fall sideways to the ground. It was only a flash of an image but it was enough to send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He still wasn't able to understand why he suddenly had made a difference. He could have saved him and be gone the next moment, yet, he had decided to stay.

"I can imagine I would've been dead, if I would've known," John continued after some seconds where he had tried to calm himself down. Back in times of war he had disciplined himself, too. It had been a necessary process in order to help injured people within a short amount of time. He had saved numerous peoples' lives with that; he had acted fast and concentrated; he had known what he had to do and he had used his abilities to make people get better. In some way, John Watson was as high-functioning as Sherlock Holmes and at the same time, he wasn't at all.

"I want to know how you did it. You're here with me at a public park. If there are still people who are having an eye on me, their boss has been informed already. So before we are probably going to die here, you can tell me how you managed to survive that jump." While saying things about getting shot, John wasn't exactly sure if Sherlock would get his sarcasm but he couldn't care less at that moment. He just had to get his words out before he would lose the strength to do so. "I get why you left me, although … although I won't be over that anytime soon but I want to know which stops you pulled to make it believable for the whole world." If it had been hard to talk about the incidents back then, it was almost impossible to go on. Image by image his mind was torturing him; their phone talk, Sherlock saying something about a note, hearing him almost cry, seeing his hand reaching out from a far distance, each and every piece of his fall, his body hitting the concrete and John finally checking if there still was a pulse before people were pulling him away from his dead friend. Squeezing his eyes shut, John tried to stay as motionless as possible but who was he trying to fool?

When a child was running past them, John continued with a shaky voice. "I'll forgive you, if you tell me how you did it. We can continue where we left off and I'll never say a word about the year that was stolen from me. But I need this. I need the truth in order to be able to move forward. You need to share this with me." At his last words, John raised his head and looked Sherlock directly in the eye again. He wasn't sure what he was about to find but he would be fine with anything, everything.

* * *

The information Sherlock had delivered unto John had been plentiful as opposed to every other response he had provided John since returning to his life two short days ago. Although, an explanation was what he owed; John was the best and perhaps only real friend Sherlock had ever had. And whether that was by doings of his own or circumstances he'd experienced through his life, the catalyst wasn't important — only the equation that it formed. John hadn't shied or cussed away from his peculiarities which, in turn, meant he hadn't entered his life with a false perception of him. The Sherlock Holmes John Watson expected was the Sherlock Holmes he was.

And to this day, their bond remained steadfast; even after deceit and 'death', it stayed; whatever was keeping them both together, whether it be mutual need for adventure, excitement, or something far more intricate, Sherlock knew he was grateful for it. He nodded to John's gradual acknowledgement, as if the matter portrayed utter indifference; he was the confessor, after all.

"You would be. I could almost assure it. But less dwelt on that matter the better, don't you think?" His words were suave but detached; and as John continued, a wry smile crossed Sherlock's lips. "I suppose that's doable. If, in fact, you are correct and we won't survive another conversation, it's only honourable I give you what you came for, isn't it?" A glint of humour flaked within his eyes but disappeared a moment afterwards as John's prose turned into pleas.

Witnessing John wrapped up within such a state was not a sight Sherlock took any remote pleasure in seeing. Emotion was flawed; it was mask-able and manipulating, but it was also overwhelming, radiating — and John was exhorting both. Clearing his throat and expression, Sherlock thought it best not to remark upon the note-worthy murmurs of his plea, and instead, began his admit.

"I knew I needed to die." His comment was blunt and almost harsh, but mandatory. "I knew Moriarty wouldn't stop until I was dead; but he wouldn't win. He wasn't allowed to win." Irritation pricked at his skin, but in an inhale, had vanished; Sherlock was staring into the gardens again. "I had Molly assist me. She had a body from the morgue replace my own after I jumped. Naturally, I knew you would move from where I instructed you to stay, so a biker knocked you over." His eyes met John's. "And you were drugged, John. Drugged to see exactly what you believed to see; exactly who you believed to see." And then flicked back. "Sherlock Holmes, dead." He grimaced a frown. "The rest of the procedure. The jump, the van beside the street, the ph—" He stopped. "Everything was staged. A façade. Pretend." He angled his face to take in John once more. "Was my explanation satisfactory?"

* * *

At Sherlock's first words John tried to hold back a flinch. No, the prospect of getting killed wasn't one he enjoyed much, yet, a small voice in the back of his head whispered that there had been moments where he had wished it would have been him on that building, not his best friend. The next second, though, he remembered that he had been on the edge of getting killed once and had a hard time not rubbing his shoulder. No, getting shot was definitely not something he wanted to experience again.

When Sherlock finally began to talk — and he did talk and not just throw his cryptic comments in — John felt himself leaning a bit towards him. His eyes were suddenly fixated on his lips, his eyes, everything that could show some emotion, even if the one and only Sherlock Holmes always tried to contain his composure. Sometimes even his genius friend wasn't able to do so. Knowing him was surely contributing as to why it was easier for John than for anyone else in the world to deduce Sherlock's actions.

Hearing his story, the original one, not the one he had told him while standing on the roof, was sending an emotion through his body, John wasn't able to file at first, but the more he heard about how Sherlock had made things work a year ago, the more sure he was of which one it was: he felt reassured. For a whole year, John had thought about possible theories how he could have survived the impossible and had always ended up even more miserable than he had been before.

When he got to the him-being-drugged-in-the-process part, his face darkened. "You drugged me? Again? Are you bloody kidding me?" Sighing heavily, John tried to stay calm. It had been necessary, He had to do it. It wouldn't have worked without it. A mantra was beginning to form in his mind just in order to keep himself from screaming in a public park. "Well, I guess, you had no choice. The guy could've been a bit nicer, though. My head still hurt a week after all of this."

John didn't know where that had come from but it sort of felt … good. He had missed the banter they had shared; he had missed the laughs, the good times. All of it. He even had missed the insults coming from Sherlock whenever he couldn't catch the logic in something he was saying. He had missed him, all of it. However, now was not the right moment to laugh and when the incidents were playing again in his mind, a question arose. "The phone call. Everything you said there, it was all a lie, apparently. But you were scared, after all, were you? You can't play something like this." John wasn't entirely sure why he was asking this. Only one explanation was possible: he wanted to know if Sherlock Holmes was able to feel.

* * *

In beckoning the taxi, Sherlock's initial intent had been to transport the pair back to 221B and re familiarise himself with the place he had once called home as well as the company he had kept within it for over a year. However, after climbing into the car, Sherlock had been provoked by odd impulse; nonetheless, he had followed it. He'd leant forward and spoken lowly into the driver's ear — he'd nodded with a grunt of understanding and just as the door (Sherlock assumed John) closed, he sat back into his seat beside John. The proximity that they were settled into the soft, worn leather was one that Sherlock recognised as closer than the pair had sat before. Yet, it was of no bother to Sherlock; he could feel the curve of his clothed knee touching the lower curve of John's.

Another who cared for the natural conventions of slight touch would've subtly altered their position to avoid awkwardness. But he didn't. Labels delivered from the ignorant point of view of society made him utterly indifferent; aware, but indifferent. Continuing his demeanour of indifference, Sherlock cast his eyes toward the taxi window to his right and thus, away from John; the bright luminance of London city through the windows of a cab and the blocky images of greys, black and browns brought a strange smile to his face. And in an instant, he was suddenly eager for conversation.

"Oddly beautiful, isn't it? Good old London." He spoke wistfully, raising his brows suggestively towards John. However, as the driver made a left instead of a right, indicating his change of route from what was once the direction to the apartment they'd shared, Sherlock turned to his front. His smile, though, maintained. "We're not going to Baker's Street, as you might've guessed. Because in all honesty, John, you look famished." He crooked his eye-line. "And I know just the place. Ever recall that Chinese place I was telling you about? Months ago?" Sherlock shook his head, answering for him. "No, of course you don't. Good place, though. Entertaining." His smile curled up into a smirk; one of which he'd encountered much with John over the months they'd spent together. They were quite a pair, indeed. His body relaxed into the back of the seat as his mind analysed their route; after 3 seconds exactly, he flinched alive. "Taxi! Here is fine." As the taxi rolled to a stop against the curb, he gripped the handle to his right before looking back to John, a wicked glint sparking within his eye. "Coming?"

* * *

Part of him was still a bit aggravated when they hopped into the cab. Sherlock had drugged him again in order to make him see things he wanted to see. Grumbling to himself, the only thing he could do was accepting it had worked after all. John had had no clue as to how Sherlock possibly could have faked his death. Now he knew.

Sitting in a cab like the two of them did now suddenly reminded John of good old times and suddenly a pang of pain shot through his chest. He was more than happy to have Sherlock back in his life, even if he still wasn't able to catch how on earth he possibly could have managed to do so, yet, he was back for good, which was everything that counted at the moment. Observing him talking to the cab driver for a second, John felt familiar procedures settling back in, but when his knee made contact with … Sherlock's he and wasn't breaking the contact after a few seconds, his head jolted in its direction. He wouldn't even have noticed if Sherlock would have made an attempt to shift his posture a little — but he didn't. With a confused expression on his face, John waited for him to finally do so and when he did, turning towards the cab window, the curve on his knee felt strangely cold for a second.

When Sherlock began to speak again, he was the excited child John had had to endure a lot back then, but it somehow made him smile internally since Sherlock seemed to be the most alive when he was eager for something. The words he was saying, though, made John only raise his eyebrows a bit higher. "Wait, how long have you been away?" Because it sounded like he hadn't be in a long time.

Before John was able to think Sherlock's comment through, the cab made a turn, which was not the right one in order to get to 221B Baker Street. "Where are we g—" He began but was interrupted by his friend. "Well, okay, I really am hungry, though," he told him when the cab was stopping after Sherlock's order. Some seconds later, his long legs and part of his torso were the only things visible from the back seat of the car; then he bent down, a strange smirk on his face. John sighed, grabbed his walking stick and slid sideways to get out of the cab. Before getting out he handed the driver some money, then swung his legs onto the pavement and attempted to arise.

Third time's a charm, a snarling voice in his head whispered mockingly, then, John tried to catch something to hold on before he would fall … again. Today isn't really my day, he thought, scowling, before preparing for the impact … and the stares.

* * *

John's comment in the taxi had gone almost unnoticed if it hadn't been for the slight twitch of his upper lip; he hadn't felt the need to reply verbally. The length of time Sherlock had been away from London (with the exception of his visitations of John) wasn't important; it was only natural John was curious, but it was also natural that Sherlock would want to keep as much as possible concerning his year in hiding veiled. The more John knew of his disappearance, the more danger the both of them would find themselves entrapped within — it wasn't safe for him to return, and he doubted it ever would be, completely. But acting as a pawn in somebody else's game would never be something that appealed to Sherlock, and for that alone, he knew leaving was the very last conclusion upon his mind.

After easing himself out of the car in one lithe motion, Sherlock channelled his palms over his infamous coat and closed the cab door behind him. The fresh, now-night air was ironically not as bitter and slicing as it had been earlier that day; the exact right in between of enveloping and loose. Adjusting his collar, Sherlock manoeuvred around the anterior section of the cab. In doing so, however, his eyes flickered to his right as he drunk in John; and it had taken him barely an instant to realise John's next course of action — he acknowledged John's fall perhaps even before John himself did. A short spark of adrenaline was the single catalyst it had taken in order to allow Sherlock to present himself before John and in a suitable position to assist his misgiving.

He'd barely bent half a head before Sherlock had swooped himself in front of his friend, and Sherlock had wasted no moments in hesitation. His arms secured John's waist and in the split seconds that followed, his lengthy fingers slid over his sides and back, the pressure of John's front against his own feelable, but not uncomfortable; his left hand met John's right shoulder and sustained the man to a stand as his alternate remained a flat foundation of security upon the centre of his spine. Sherlock's eyes were locked wholly upon John's, analysing every detail, every crevice of his face as the stress slowly disappeared from it. A heart verberated against his chest and Sherlock realised it wasn't his own; he allocated a few inches of distance between them and let escape a breath he had no idea he was holding.

"Are you all right, John?" He said, breathy, as the hand of which had been poised at John's spine, smoothed over his left shoulder. "Are you all right, now?" He repeated.

* * *

John really wasn't used to his stiff leg any more — which was proven again when he had underestimated his handicap and kind of … struggle-fell to the ground — but never actually touched it. A groaning sound escaped his throat when he prepared himself to hit the concrete but when strong arms were steadying his body a frown appeared on his face. Only a second later, he felt Sherlock's chest against his and a strain of hair brushing his forehead; another second and he was separated from him again, yet, still able to smell his perfume. For a brief moment, John wondered since when his friend did something like playing the rules of the society. Perfume was something he would have filed under that. Also, catching people before they would hurt themselves, didn't really seem to match his usual behavior either.

However, John hadn't time to give it a second thought since Sherlock was basically x-raying him with his stare. "I'm fine, Sherlock," he replied with an irritated expression on his face. "I'm fine, thank you. You can let go of me now." And with that, he began to make his way towards the Chinese restaurant, Sherlock had picked for them. "Are you coming?" He asked him, turning around while doing so. "It's pretty cold out here, even for an evening in June."

Facing the Chinese restaurant again without checking if Sherlock was following him, John made his way towards the entrance and while doing so, a thoughtful expression was replacing the irritated one he had had on his face beforehand. What was that? He wondered and was glad, Sherlock couldn't see his face. He most likely would have known what he was thinking within bare seconds. This little incident hadn't exactly been something his friend would normally do. Not with other people. Well, John had been rather special to him, he assumed and tried to suppress the sort of proud feeling inside him, yet, catching him in a manner like this had been … odd, so to speak. On top of that, Sherlock had touched his … soft spot with his thumb. Accidentally or not, it had felt strangely comfortable sensing his long, violinist fingers on the spot where he had been shot in his shoulder. Maybe his body hadn't been sending out waves of awkwardness because they had spent a good amount of time with each other before Sherlock had to fake his death.

When the ambience of the restaurant was unfolding its beauty right in front of him, his confusing thoughts were brushed away in an instant, though. Noticing Sherlock right behind him, John turned around, looking curious. "Do we have a reservation? I know you reserve tables a lot, so how's it tonight?" He suddenly felt the urge to talk. It would keep him from thinking.

* * *

There were moments such as this one; fleeting instances that had caught Sherlock off guard; though their existence was still rare now, before meeting John they had been practically non-existent. However, the thought of John in any kind of danger that equated itself as preventable by Sherlock, the detective subconsciously nominated his own self as the person of who needed to save him and therefore divert said danger. Whatever the stimulus was: be it a strong sense of loyalty or even out of fear of total solitude, Sherlock's every movement and every thought when John encountered hazardous situations was geared toward assisting him out of it. Yet, in spite of his occasional 'rescues', the connotation that they distributed to John's person were not by any means conventional.

After gathering his proper thought and footing, John's expression immediately altered into an unappreciative near-scowl and the tone of which he spoke within was short and gruff. His reactions were unchanging and undependable upon the seriousness of the situation, something of which mildly perplexed Sherlock. Extracting the cliché of a hero, the bare definition of heroism remained: a person who has performed an act of 'heroic behaviour' for another; despite never naming himself such, saving a person for whatever reason from whatever a circumstance should still convey a positive distinction. But it didn't. Not in John Watson's mind. He supposed the simple alternative assumption would be the puerile pang of embarrassment that served as a negative quality among most — and upon a limited moment, even Sherlock himself.

He wondered absently when John would overcome his incredibly conscious awareness of society's norms but soon halted the inward muse. John and he were very different, that much had always been obvious. In the time Sherlock had pondered, he had released his slim fingers from John's shoulders and walked after John as he'd turned toward the entrance. It wasn't often they'd walk without Sherlock leading or beside one another, but upon special circumstance, with Sherlock held a slight inkling it was, they walked this way. His irises focused upon John as he adjusted his collar once more and strode over the threshold. A faintly amused look flickered across his face as John spoke, converging with his method of subject change.

"We are still in England, John; do you expect it to be any other?" He remarked in a low tease and pressed open the doors with his palms.

Instead of matching John's pace, Sherlock lurked slightly behind him, his eyes deducing in their usual manner whilst granting John moments to think to himself as he wished. The anterior of the restaurant was relatively unaltered: the people, though evidently different, were similar to the others he'd noticed before; average, boring lives, clothes and appearances. For once, however, as his gaze returned to John, he decided against deduction, finding the secretive act almost intruding. He was his friend, occasional privacy was a fitting gift, he supposed. For John. Finally reaching John's side, he parted his lips in order to respond, but was halted by a small youth: male and obviously of Chinese origin.

"Table for two; under Watson." Sherlock said, flashing John a quick twitch of his lips before following the waiter.


	5. Shots & Neon Lights Part 1

**Author's note: Hi all! We apologise for the late update, though the good news is not only is this chapter completed, but so is the one afterwards; meaning, you guys won't have to wait so long for an update! (Or, at least, that's the plan.) Thank you, as always, for your views, reviews, favourites & follows – you're amazing. **

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: Shots & Neon Lights Part 1**

The restaurant Sherlock had chosen wasn't unfamiliar to John. He had known the place since he had been here with his friend once before. He could remember the tables with their white cloths, the chairs with their red coating, the walls with their golden ornaments, the plants placed all over the room between tables and a huge pond with goldfish in the middle of the room. For him, this place was looking rather … overdone. Too much bric-a-brac for his taste. And also, why did there _have_ to be a dragon in every single one of those places? It was like a restaurant wasn't a Chinese one if there wasn't a dragon.

Grimacing at the extravagant design of the pictures on the wall, John had expected Sherlock to talk to one of the waiters. A few seconds later, he had done so — and John's facial expression had frozen once more. While walking towards a table at a quieter place of the restaurant, John had hissed, "I know you can't reserve under your name anymore, but under _mine_? Very subtle." With a small shake of his head, he had dug his way through the crowd of chattering, laughing, eating crowd of people, Sherlock's back in front of him.

Part of John's mind had still lingered over the small incident from earlier. He had heard his heart pounding against his ribcage and he hadn't been sure if it had been because of the public embarrassment he had thought he would have to endure — even if no one had seen, but how could he have known beforehand? — or if it had been caused by the sudden, immediate proximity of their bodies. When they had sat down and a menu card had been placed in front of him, John had had a hard time concentrating on the maddeningly complicated titles. Yi shang shu, szechuan, pei-ching-k'ao-ya … sometimes he hadn't even been able to read the names, not to mention saying them out loud. It had taken John a few minutes to decide on a dish and when someone had been igniting the candle that had been placed between them a few moments earlier, he had made his order. "I'd like to eat the …" He had started, still debating with himself if he should say the Chinese term or the British one but one glance towards Sherlock and he had known he would have to endure a suppressed laughter if he would go with the former — and his choice suddenly hadn't been difficult at all anymore. "… the roast duck breast with pineapple. Thank you," He had continued, trying to sound as neutral as possible. "Oh —" He had added suddenly, when Sherlock had been about to order his dish. "A beer, too, please. Thanks." Then he had taken his eyes from the waiter and had laid them upon his friend, waiting for him to speak again.

A few moments later, the waiter had excused himself with a thick, Chinese accent and they had been alone again. They had sat in silence for a short while, then he had raised his voice, a question on his lips that he had wanted to ask for a while now. "So, you're not doing anything without a reason," John had begun when he had made sure that nobody from the tables next to them would paying attention to what they were speaking. "Why are we here, exactly?"

* * *

Exposure was exciting; and right now, Sherlock was perhaps feeling the most excitement he had encountered in months. They'd hardly paced down a single street away from the Chinese when the emotion had slowly began to engulf him; danger had always attracted Sherlock, its allure practically irresistible. His hunger for it was insatiable, and John seemed to acknowledge that; maybe even hanker for it also — to an extent. But whatever John was feeling, Sherlock knew within himself that revealing himself to John, whether it was foolish or well-timed, it was inerasable now. More to the point, Sherlock didn't want to erase it. He'd finally found his footing after months of aimless wandering and he wouldn't succumb to rational principle out of fear. He controlled his own life, decisions, and it had taken the very man he'd walked away from for him to realise that.

Noting John halt by the entrance of a back-street night club, Sherlock pricked his eyebrows skyward and glanced toward John in a clearly inquisitive manner. It took no man of high intellect to know Sherlock had never entered such a place for recreational purposes before for evident reasons, and yet, he uttered not a single word in questionable response. He trusted John, as well as whatever motives he may've had for bringing the both of them here. So instead, he followed John over the threshold, vibrating with the heavy bass that emitted from within. Flashes of neon; reds, pinks, blues, greens shot across his vision as the musky smell of deodorants, body odours and alcohol infiltrated his nasal receptors.

He smiled wryly, eyeing an embracing twosome three feet to their right.

"Excellent idea for a hide out, John; if I do say myself." He lent his mouth to his ear. "_Much to my taste_."

* * *

John didn't exactly know where his sudden mood to celebrate was coming from but he appreciated it very much so. Sherlock was back and he really didn't want to talk about the past year, even if it had been the topic, aside from the incident after the taxi drive. John didn't want to grief, to mourn, to be sad. He didn't want to be scared for one single evening. After paying the bill they left the Chinese restaurant. John hadn't exactly known where they should go but as soon as the chill June air was in his lungs he developed a fairly good idea within seconds. "I'm not sure how you're feeling about it but there are no excuses tonight. I'm always following you when you're on a case, now you're following me when it's about fun, alright?" With a short look he assured that Sherlock was still following him — and he did. "I'm taking you to a club nearby."

John had almost expected him to protest, yet, his reaction was a completely different one. He _approved_. With a simple shrug, John continued to make his way to the club and only a few minutes later they arrived at their destination. "Don't do what you're usually doing — observing and deducing and all that stuff. This is a fun night and it's not your kind of fun."

Then they entered the club — and it was like John suddenly felt ten years younger. He hadn't even known for himself but he had missed a night like this. The neon lights, the people dancing around, although he wasn't really a dancing person, everything just fit. Not even his limping leg was influencing his mood negatively.

When Sherlock suddenly spoke into his ear, he could feel his breath on his neck and for a moment, John was startled. Then he realized what his friend just had said. "Your taste?" He yelled over the loud music back to him. "Didn't know you were one for that kind of stuff." With a fairly surprised look on his face, he continued. "Let's fetch some drinks." And before Sherlock even could have raised a protest, he ordered two vodka martini and sat down at the bar.

* * *

Naturally, Sherlock's action at such a proximity had been a mild shock to John, and it'd be a falsehood to claim it hadn't influenced the swoop of a smirk that had met his lips a split second afterwards; surprising John had always amused Sherlock to a degree, and as it so appeared, that was one aspect of their relationship that had altered with time. Upon their first meeting, his goal had been to impress the Ex Army Doctor into submission of his will — the will, of course, becoming Sherlock's flat-mate. Tonight, however, the detective possessed an odd feeling his prior surprise would be one of the few he would achieve tonight; for Night clubs were far more John's forte than Sherlock's.

Being at a disadvantage concerning any element of Sherlock's life was not a reality he enjoyed, yet he found himself secretly intrigued as to what the night would entail. So as John retorted, an effortless laugh fell from his lips — a laugh their carefree environment invoked.

"Oh, there's a lot that you don't know about me, John." He mused, continuing their playful banter as he did so. his intonation elevated somewhat as did his eyebrows; nonetheless, he walked after John, further into the depths of the club. His irises scanned the interior and is inhabitants hastily; however, before he was able to make sense of his heightened observations, he recalled John's previous words and frowned visibly. No deduction; a single night without it — hardly a night, mere hours. It was possible. Of course it was. He directed himself into the present moment.

Arriving at John's side, Sherlock rested the butt of his elbow against the lighted surface of the bar and kept his eyes focused upon John himself; if he directed his gaze carefully and without real purpose he could excuse his incessant need for deduction. Dropping his eyes to the two drinks, Sherlock pouted and pinched the beverage nearest to him in between his thumb and forefinger.

"Vodka." He stated flatly. "Starting on spirits I see. We'll be ending the night with jelly shots at this rate…" He murmured with an eye roll; tipping his head back he took a gulp.

* * *

It was merely ten o'clock; yet, the majority of people seemed to be half-drunk already. It was the perfect place to be tonight. "A lot I don't know?" John repeated with a curious expression on his features. "Like what?_ Shock me._" Taking a first good sip of the drink he had ordered a few minutes ago, he watched Sherlock watch him. "You're trying to be normal, don't you?" He said with squeezed eyes. "You're trying not to analyze people and things and minds. This is good. I approve of that." Another sip went down his throat and the burn which was spreading through his body for a moment felt actually pretty good. "How do you know jelly shots, though? You didn't even know the solar system when I asked you about it back then." Laughing lightly, John raised his glass. "To everything," he said with a grin on his face. "Let's just enjoy the night."

* * *

The taste of vodka was bitter and lethal as it burn its trail of liquid around the circumference of his throat; he had never quite understood the appeal of one wasting their night indulging within intoxicating beverages, only to have their body endure the repercussions of vile sickness the morning after — yet the company Sherlock was keeping led him to believe their was a vague appeal to vast alcohol intake. Or rather, even if there wasn't, Sherlock was providing John with the benefit of the doubt — a gift not granted to many, but one he always would to John. However, as he spoke of Sherlock's attempts a normalcy, he swallowed back the vodka and smiled, placing it upon the bar.

His right brow arched as his lips did.

"Am I that peculiar that when i try to converge it's so evident?" He was teasing, and strangely, simply for the sake of it. He shrugged. "Like I said: I observe." He reminded him before regarding John with a wistful expression. "I'll need another drink; or ten."

* * *

"Yes, you are very peculiar when you try to act like a human being. It just doesn't fit your usual behavior, that's why I'm noticing it." John didn't know how, but the glass right in front of him was empty already. "I suggest we do a contest then, if you need a lot of alcohol." John's smile grew even wider. "This version of Sherlock H— sorry, not that smart," he interrupted himself when he noticed the mistake he just almost had made. "Anyway, this version of _you_ is the most entertaining _you_ I have ever had the pleasure to meet." Grinning again, John ordered the first two shots. "Well, let's see who's better at drinking. Maybe there is one thing in the world where I can beat you. Cheers." Raising his glass again, John didn't even wait for his friend to emulate his deeds. In fact, he ordered another shot. Sherlock had said ten drinks after all, so he would get his ten drinks. Feeling the warmth already crawling up inside him, John suddenly felt the urge to say something more. "Oh and, could you stop looking at me like you're about to seduce a woman? Thank you."

* * *

John's remark had earnt him an eye roll, one of which Sherlock didn't accompany with words to begin with, though, a short number of seconds afterwards,

"Now, now, John; if I was an average, and painfully boring human being I wouldn't be extraordinary, now would I?" He challenged fairly, but he was ever shielding a smirk from arriving upon his lips once more. Offering his attention to the empty glass for a split second, he nodded. "I said ten, did I? No less." He insisting, raising his eyes and acknowledging John's; he wasn't certain whether it was merely the spark of electronic light reflecting within them, or whether the electronic light had induced the spark already within John's irises, but either way — it shone, but in the moment it had taken him to register it, it had disappeared and Sherlock's concentration was distracted. "Beat me? Now that's a laugh and a half." His eyes narrowed in interest, smirk extended and his eyes reacted to the seemingly contagious spark within John's. "Challenge accepted." And with that, he secured a couple more mouthfuls until John spoke again; this time, however, he'd captured Sherlock in an odd place — at loss. He swiped his tongue across his lower lip, catching a drop of alcohol. "Seduction of a woman; is that in your categories of my looks, also?"

* * *

The music was pulsating in John's ears and sometimes he had a hard time catching every single word Sherlock was yelling over the music to him, which led to him sliding a bit nearer. His blue-green-greyish eyes were fixed on his gaze, the neon lights illuminating his face for the fraction of a second in short periods. And then something happened John didn't know the one and only Sherlock Holmes could be capable of. Being a little boastful in one moment, he almost looked as if his remark had made him feel nonplussed. For some strange reason, John followed the movement of his tongue with his eyes, let them linger upon his lips for one more second until he caught himself staring. Reminding himself of what he just had … _observed_, he really felt the need to comment it. "Well, you have a lot of looks and I already know you for some time now, so it's not that odd I also know this one. Remember Irene Adler? Yes? Good." Then he turned around and ordered another two shots. After a second, he corrected his order and asked for twice as much. "Second and third round. I expect us to drink those ten shots within fifteen minutes. Ready? On three. One — two — three!"

* * *

It was a struggle to believe the John Watson settled before him was the same John Watson he'd been greeted with upon his real return to 221B Baker Street; that John had been trembling and fragile in both mind and body; yet this John was elated, ecstatic by the mere heat and impulse of the moment — his company was delighting, almost luring. As odd as it sounded in a usual context, Sherlock could fathom no other term to describe it. However, as their discussion delved further into the subject John had shied from earlier that day, Sherlock's intrigue increased.

"How interesting; remind me to ask you to dictate them to me when you're sober; i'll amuse me do doubt." He spoke above the music; though the mention of the infamous 'Woman' caused his lips to twitch slightly, but not quite reaching a smile."Irene Adler, was nothing to me; an experiment; yes. But every other person is an experiment to me at some point or other," he paused, finding the abstract need to confess the extension of his statement which, without the influence of alcohol would've surely been left unspoken, "normally, more often than every other. But I have my exceptions. Sometimes." He finished, knowing John didn't need clarification upon his expansion.

Luckily, before their conversation could've revealed more unnecessary truths, their allocated shots had arrived and the game began. After three, Sherlock had felt his co-ordination lacking less than ordinarily and upon the downing of his final shot, he'd slammed it upon the bar's surface and turned to John, an air of success about him.

* * *

As soon as John had vocalized his sentence about Irene Adler, he had regretted it. He could remember the heartbroken Sherlock like it had been yesterday and a heartbroken Sherlock wasn't easy to handle. At all. However, reminding himself again about the purpose of this evening. They couldn't have been here for more than twenty minutes, yet, John felt tipsy already. He could sense it; his vision got blurred on the edges and his smile tended to stay longer on his features than normally. "Waitress!" He yelled when Sherlock was kind of slamming his shot on the bar's surface. "Four! Now!" He didn't want to sound as bossy as it sounded but well, he couldn't really care right now. "Whoever's losing those has to chug an extra shot." John didn't really know where this was coming from, yet, he liked the idea. "Alright? Alright." And when the next two glasses were put in front of them and the waitress was already eyeing them suspiciously, he said, almost solemny "To us." Then he began counting down again. On three, he swallowed twice and laid his eyes upon Sherlock's. "Well, your loss, I assume," he teased, flicked his fingers once without breaking eye contact and grinned until the glass was between them. "Have fun with it."

* * *

Whatever purpose John had assumed he had for mentioning Irene Adler was one that Sherlock had struck virtually redundant. She had held some version of intrigue for him upon their first meeting for the simple fact she was clearly intelligent and diverted from the norm — just as he did. Yet, John's obsession with exaggerating her presumed affect upon him was an almost common occurrence, and one Sherlock had learnt to ignore as much as possible. for whatever reason, the thought of Sherlock's recognition of emotions of any sort fascinated John, and to this day, he wasn't certain what to make of that assessment. Either way, Irene or any other emotion but the playful pleasure of a moment between friends and companions was dismissed in the instant his attention became side-tracked by John.

His vision was beginning to blunder, lines misplacing themselves upon every object he was to eye; colours blended also and the only object he was certain of in its view and complexity was John himself. He would be his anchor for the night, the one to ground him to reality — if John hadn't lost grip of it already. He'd hardly had time in order to register John's orders as an amused chuckle rippled from his lips.

"To us," he agreed, and if he hadn't have known better, he would've sworn he'd winked.

He indulged within the next round of shots before downing the final container of alcohol and in measuring the reflection of amusement within John's own expression, felt his smile return.

"Steady on, _Watson_," he emphasised, clasping a hand upon his upper arm, "I don't want to be carrying you home. People will talk."

* * *

"Since when do you care about people's opinions?" John asked, getting the shot and holding it in Sherlock's direction. "Drink. You lost. I won." Smirking, he tried not to spill a single drop of alcohol. His friend had to drink this and even if he would beg for mercy he wouldn't retreat. There was no other option. Realizing how serious this topic was, John brushed off the smirk and replaced it with a grave expression. This was a grievous situation and he should act accurately on it. "There is no other way out of it," he continued, still holding up the little glass, right under Sherlock's nose. "Do it."

The touch of Sherlock's hand on his upper arm and the wink he had given him somehow affected him, however, John wasn't sure how exactly, though, since the only thing he could feel inside his body was the tingling of the alcohol and the heat crawling up but it made him linger for a moment too long.

Then John took a glance around the room. Somehow the lights were blurrier than before and the people looked more boozed than half an hour ago. All of a sudden, he felt the urge to dance but a few seconds needed to go by until he realized that his leg wouldn't do him the favor of suddenly functioning again. Sighing, he turned around to the counter, ordering a Long Island Iced Tea for each of them. "We need to make progress," he told Sherlock after noticing his gaze upon him.

* * *

In digesting John's valid counter, Sherlock pulled a face; his brows furrowing as his lips fell into an open pout. Within the matter of minor seconds, however, his mind had adopted a suitable answer.

"What can I say, John? Adapting to normalcy is harder than it may seem…" He lent forward and over the solitary shot glass that remained — his stance, mind and eyes allied toward John. Though, as John's words interrupted his own train of thought, his eyes regarding the glass poised below his nose; cocking his head a degree, observing John with nothing short of utter intrigue, he relented and snapped his thumb and forefinger about the tiny glass; the cushion of his fore finger grazing the curve of John's supporting finger for an instant, before he'd retrieved the drink and knocked it back in a fluent motion. "Done." He angled his back further from John, surveying his gratification, which oddly, Sherlock shared. "Is there anything else you will have me do? Whilst this.. _night of firsts_ is still here?" He queried, drumming the fingers upon his left hand upon his thigh. "We need to make progress?" Sherlock repeated, managing to grasp what element of an incredulous tone his alcohol-induced self allowed him to reach. He shook his head, a proactive smirk (which appeared stuck to his lips) widening across his mouth as he raised his right finger, pressing the tip of it against the shirt cladding John's chest. "From my point of viewing, the progress is making_ you_." He said pointedly, a low laugh erupting from within his chest as clasped his alternate hand around the chilled glass; he drank a substantial amount of the amber liquid as he withdrew his finger from John's front. "But I can hardly refuse… So _amuse me_, Watson."

* * *

Sometimes John wasn't sure if Sherlock knew that other people might take notice of his actions and address him, however, the movement with which he chugged that shot of tequila down would definitely not go by unnoticed, he was sure of that. Or maybe it was just his brain telling him the oddest things to confuse him and make things awkward. Anyway, when Sherlock was suddenly talking about 'night of firsts', John couldn't help it but snort with laughter, almost spilling some of his drink on his shirt. "You do know what you just said? How you worded it? I'm sorry, Holmes, but that was kind of saucy, to be honest." Chuckling, John took a big sip. "But well, whatever."

"Hey, come on, I'm not the only one getting more drunk with each single shot I'm drinking. You should see yourself right now. I bet, you're not able to deduce people as fast as you can while being sober." Grinning widely at his assumption, John half-emptied the glass, feeling his friend's finger on his chest but it was gone way too soon for his liking. "Amuse you? With what?" Frowning, he tried to understand what Sherlock was talking about and when he didn't know the answer after some seconds, he shrugged and got two new shots. Not even waiting for him to raise his glass, John emptied it with one smooth movement (and secretly trying to look as impressive as the dark-haired man right in front of him), put his glass down and held the other one under Sherlock's nose again. "You're starting to slacken," he teased. "And I don't think you like losing. Six for me, six for you. If you drink that one, it'll even be seven. I still think I'm better at drinking, though … Did that make any sense?"


	6. Shots & Neon Lights Part 2

**Author's note: Sorry sorry sorry for not updating sooner; in all honesty, we've both just been so busy doing other things we've neglected our updating. But alas, here it is. Thank you readers, followers, favouriters alike - we love you all. **

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: Shots & Neon Lights Part 2**

John's near-simultaneous laughter to his remark had triggered an odd laugh of Sherlock's — one that didn't surpass the smooth flesh of his lips as often as John himself would chuckle. Nonetheless, Sherlock dismissed the internal observation as a byproduct of their already-unusual night. Carefree moments of genuine, human humour that didn't require the assistance of his most prominent trait of intelligence were few and far between, but when they arose, they amused Sherlock greatly. And apparently, John also. His slender fingers had stopped their previous tap against his trouser-clothed thigh as he crossed his ankles, eyebrows levelled dubiously as he attempted, unsuccessfully, to scrape a smile from his mouth. He let out a hot exhale, raising his arms in a mock surrender, pulling a face ridden with jollity.

"Saucy was it? Well, in that case; i shall try and tame my vocabulary choices in order to accommodate the primal connotations your mind relates to every word I say." He took a breath, mild elation blooming within his chest and continuing to progress into a more potent form; he jolted his eyebrows upward. "And by that, in John Watson terms, I mean: I'll try not to speak as saucily." Shaking his head, he cast off the topic with a simple couple of movements of his face. Though, as John spoke of his common means of entertainment, his eyes narrowed but couldn't reach their normal sense of even minor agitation "I'll have you know, John, that I can deduce anyone, anywhere in any state Why, I could deduce…" His eyes darted about the club, ogling swaying, blurring crowds of dancers before resting upon the man before him again. "You, for instance!" Cocking his head, his eyes remained smaller. "Your name is John Ham—no, Doctor John Hamish Watson and you were in the army and…" His eyes flicked to his knees then back to his face. "You have a limp, and—this is ridiculous." He insisted, rolling his eyes. Thankfully, however, the arrival of several more alcohol shots had saved him from his mind's own arrogant near-failure. "Slacken me? Never. In fact…" Leaning toward him again, Sherlock held John's eyes, taking the rim of the shot between his teeth and in a second, the liquid had vanished; a single splash of alcohol dribbled over the ridge of his lip and onto his chin; his tongue mopped it up efficiently — a smirk returned. "As you were saying?"

* * *

For a few seconds John just sat on his barstool, wondering when Sherlock Holmes had become that likable. He wasn't the arrogant, self-centered idiot anymore – well, at least for tonight. Who knew how he would behave tomorrow? Even his deduction was lacking continuity and John had a really hard time not to laugh at him for failing. If he would remember it, he would address it later on, that he was sure of.

When John was holding the shot right in front of his friend's face, he hadn't ever thought of what would happen next. Yes, there was something about Sherlock that was completely different tonight; hell, they had never been that boozed before, but seeing him taking that shot with his teeth, not breaking eye-contact within the process, was something John couldn't file at first. Later on either. Yet, for the fraction of a second it hat felt like the rest of the club was mute. He had watched his Adam's apple dip and the smirk on his features was kind of distracting, too.

"Well," John continued after lingering for some seconds with his hand still in the same position as before. "Let's finish this drinking contest, alright?" Ordering another five shots and ignoring the almost annoyed expression on the waitresses' face, John breathed in and out for a few times. "Whoever wins can make the other one do something he wants. Whatever it is." Mirroring the smirk Sherlock still held on his face, he started to count downwards.

* * *

Sherlock was well aware that his alcohol consumption was taking a toll upon both his mood as well as his body — he had long forgotten his earlier conscious attempts to suppress whatever urges the toxic was inviting to his surface and had instead given himself over to them. He was not aware, however, of the wholly enigmatic demeanour he was conveying to John, and the man reflected within John's pupils was a strange sight indeed. Yet it was him; simply Sherlock Holmes; a Sherlock Holmes that viewed by John's wide, dilated eyes he found he prized. His smirk altered and a smile took its place. This was happiness; in spite of its heavy taint of vodka and beverages alike, he was happy for the first time in a year. Honestly, happy.

The after-taste of the shot was no longer a burden upon his taste buds; the fire was fuelling his mood rather than dampening it now as Sherlock took the game John was delivering. Had he been of sober mind, he wouldn've no doubt noticed John's non-verbal cues relating to their current situation — but no ounce of deduction was occurring. And Sherlock found, consciously, he was no longer resentful of that. Risking a glance to his right, he eyed the unimpressed waitress with a soft pout before angling his elbow upon the bar and gesturing to his companion.

"I don't think she likes you, Watson. Somehow I don't think your string of girlfriends will get any longer tonight." He mused, blinking a single time more than usual as he registered John's terms. His thumb met his lower lip and stroked the surface in thought. "Whatever it is?" He repeated and it took him a second to voice his decision. "I always did love a game."

* * *

It started getting harder and harder to keep balance with every shot swallowed down and John knew that they would regret it having drunk this amount of liquor the next day. Yet, he couldn't care less about the matter right now. There was a contest to win; John wouldn't be slower than Sherlock, he just wouldn't. It was impossible. Ignoring Sherlock's comment about the waitress, he continued to count down and took one gulp after the other, still feeling the burn in his throat, in his whole body; feeling the warmth spreading through his blood system and influencing his senses.

After gulping the third time, John smashed the little glass on to the counter and tried to focus on Sherlock, ignoring his pounding heart as efficient as possible. He didn't want to admit that he was a little nervous indeed.

However, a wide smile appeared on his face when he heard Sherlock's glass hit the surface of the bar a heartbeat later. "I told you so," John said with a teasing voice. "I won." The pout on his friend's face was priceless and made John laugh even harder. Holding his stomach, he also didn't notice how his walking stick fell to the ground. The music was way too loud to hear the bump when it hit the floor as well as he had developed a tunnel vision already.

"So, I can make a wish now, right?"

* * *

Somewhere within his rational mind Sherlock realised that John was going to beat him; or rather, that the possibility of Sherlock beating John was highly unlikely due to John's more natural flair for the drinking sport. Nonetheless, Sherlock refused to give in without a fight, so as the pair began throwing shots into the backs of their throats, Sherlock did so with what hast his could manage in relation to his current condition. The sound of John's clank of glass before his own had been practically a given, though Sherlock had felt a mild grimace crop his features anyway. After all, he was no fan of losing in any shape or context.

But, he'd allow John his earnt glory this once — his smile of triumph once more igniting Sherlock a smile of his own. In the second it appeared, however, it had soon vanished within the next instance and Sherlock masked his momental reception of inverted pride with an eye roll far more clumsy than he was used to.

"All right, all right; you won! Hurray for you." He muttered, exhaling a large breath as he placed the dip of his chin upon his open palm set onto his elbow still angled upon the bar's surface; his eyebrows had raised themselves in intrigue as he readied himself for whatever wish John had in store. "Yes, yes. Wish away, Watson, and i'll try my up-most best to make it come true."

* * *

Just when Sherlock returned his smile, something came to John's mind. He hadn't known what he would wish for, if he would win. He hadn't thought about it, because thinking was something rather complicated at this time of the night. Yet, the ridiculous eye roll and the pose his friend was showing now let his mind come up with something he wouldn't have vocalized when being sober, if he had to be honest to himself. However, now that he wasn't at all, he also didn't realize how important his friend's reaction would be to him. It only occurred to him when he had spoken out the words of his wish already. When it was too late.

"Don't ever leave me again."

Even if John was pretty drunk; even if he wasn't able to sit straight anymore; even if he felt the tiredness trying to make his eyes close; even if his heart was pounding and he was sweating and suddenly way too nervous for his liking, he knew that this was the moment. This was the defining moment and more important than anything in his life had ever been. The air suddenly felt a tad thicker, the music almost too loud, the people too near.

But that was it. Finally looking into Sherlock's eyes, he tried to read something in them but he was, like each and every time he tried before, lost without a hint.

* * *

Within the vast interior of Sherlock's brilliant, yet void of emotion mind he had known John's wish, for it had been the very same wish that had remained unchanging from the moment John had seen him again; the very same silent echo behind every murmur, the soundless initiator behind every shrewd look… And, evidently, the waver behind every gentle, joyous smile. 'Don't ever leave me again.' The voiced plea affected Sherlock upon a far deeper level than he thought was possible within such a strange state of mind, but as it appeared, John managed to reach him in any aspect of himself he found himself enveloped by.

Yet, not once had he questioned John's ability to do so, for he had no need to — because he knew. There was only viable response he was able to give, and he gave it with an uncanny amount of sincerity he hadn't encountered since the day of his planned demise.

"Never." He said, boring his shining, intense eyes into the hopeful and hopelessly earnest pools John's personalised vulnerability had created. His hand met the tip of john's knee in an act of comfort that wasn't his own, but had been controlled by his subconscious all the same. "If we go down this time, we go down together. As allies, as friends, companions…" He stopped, his chest clenching for half a breath. "I was always lost without my blogger, after all." He smiled.

* * *

Even if John was bloody drunk by now and his brain wasn't functioning as quickly as usual, he could feel the anxiety leave his body in an instant. For a whole year he had been alone and lonely; had been sitting in his chair and stared at Sherlock's, almost as if he would reappear if he would continue looking at it intensely enough. Now that his best friend was back and in the best mood he had ever seen him be — loosened up, boozed, happy — his words were the most precious ones he had ever heard coming out of his mouth.

"I appreciate that," John told him, looking at the hand on his leg. He would have told him to get it off; people would talk, but not this time, not when Sherlock was showing some genuine form of emotion towards him. He didn't care if someone would catch his movement, which led to him putting his own hand over his for a moment. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Then he drank the rest of his cocktail, put the glass down on the counter and looked at Sherlock. "I think we should go home now," he began, slurring. "I think we've had enough." Grinning, John slid down the bar stool and waited for his friend to follow him. Some seconds later they were walking out of the bar, after paying the bill with a nice tip, even if the waitress had given them a dark look. When they were outside the bar, John tried to put on his jacket but wasn't able to do so. Laughing, he turned around to face Sherlock. "Look what I'm doing here. I'll just go home without it." Throwing the jacket away, it landed on a car next to them. Shrugging, he turned around and began to walk towards 221B Baker Street, satisfied with everything.

* * *

Physical affection was not a concept common to Sherlock, so as the foreign feeling of true, genuine touch infiltrated his system, much like the alcohol itself, Sherlock had found himself dubious to its outcome at first, but slowly, had eased his frame and mind into the welcome repercussions of it. He had initiated the gesture to John, and the token of touch he had received in response had smoothed a strain within his chest that had gone unnoticed before. But he hadn't had time to linger upon the extensive aftermath of their brief flutter of mutual comfort for John was climbing (or more correctly stumbling) from his stool and indicating for Sherlock to walk with him.

Learning from the less-than-graceful exit John had made seconds before, Sherlock hooked his fingers as secure as he was able, upon the bar's edge and hopped from the stool and followed his friend (albeit somewhat ruggedly) through the intoxicated stream of dancers and dwellers. Once they breached the entrance's threshold and broke into the veil of chilled night air, Sherlock gulped down a large proportion, the cool atmosphere whisking down his throat as his irises attempted to focus to their usual precision — which of course, had been a futile effort. As John's voice dripped into the night, Sherlock's attention swivelled toward him as well as his body as he regarded John's odd dance-like actions in attempting to re-dress himself. A humour-filled chuckle left his lips as he collected the jacket and regrouped at john's immediate side.

"I wouldn't leave that, if I were you Watson," He said, concentrating unusually hard upon cloaking John's shoulders with his jacket and in an attempt to steady his criss-crossing steps as well as his lengthy frame, Sherlock's arm remained draped over John's shoulders. "The walk home could get rather chill—bastard!" He cussed, finding his stance now not a stance at all but an awkward crouch upon the ground as he attempted to scramble up to his full height via the assistance of John's arm. "Watson, Watson! I seem to have fallen; so help me, help me up!" His finger tips slid against the fabric of John's shirt as he added in an even higher pitch a further exaggeration of his name.

* * *

John couldn't remember a single night where they had gotten drunk like this — maybe because he was pretty drunk by now … or maybe because he was right indeed. Usually, John would sit in his armchair in the living room and watch TV while Sherlock would occupy the couch next to him and think; mostly about details of the case they had been solving, sometimes about the endless stupidity of the human race and in very rare cases he would talk about Mycroft, Lestrade or Mrs Hudson. He wouldn't talk a lot; only if something unbelievably stupid were on TV, he would yell at it, as if he could change the plot, the louder he was.

One thing that was new to John in this new situation was Sherlock's use of his surname. He hadn't done it ever when they had been living together, which was why it was that striking, he assumed. The other part of unusual observations was the sudden lack of space and the touches from time to time. Maybe this was Sherlock when he was drunk and John hadn't ever had the opportunity to meet this version of the consulting detective, although he couldn't quite get his head around the idea that it could be just that. Perhaps, a small part of his mind thought, there was something else. Some underlying reason he wasn't able to decipher yet.

However, feeling Sherlock putting his jacket back on, John felt his eyebrows raise a little and his gaze focusing on his friend. "Well, yeah, thanks," he regarded his enthusiasm to help him and began walking again, now with a slightly less prominent shiver. After a few steps, he slightly wondered why Sherlock didn't put his arm down but he couldn't really care about it at that moment. They were looking like good friends now; shouldn't it be like this? However, before being able to find a proper answer to his question, the arm was suddenly missing and a voice was calling from down next to him. Readjusting his head in the source's direction, John discovered a sight he would be really thankful for the rest of his life. On the ground right next to him lay a boozed Sherlock Holmes after stumbling into a pot hole.

John's laughter echoed across the dark street, high and free. "This didn't just happen," he said, holding his stomach and trying not to cry. "This is too precious." Feeling his hands on his shirt, John held out one hand, still laughing way too loud around midnight. "Come on, get up," he said, steadying him for a few seconds — although he had a fairly big problem steadying himself properly — and continuing to walk afterwards. "I should have brought a camera," he giggled and wiped away a gleeful tear out of the corner of his eye.


End file.
